An Unexpected Gift (Insta-Spark Book 4) Read online

  2

  Evan

  A sweet smell hit me as I entered the diner, rich with cinnamon and sugar—it was obvious pies were being made for the next day. The scent was tantalizing. The diner was emptier than it had been earlier. I made my way to a table and sat down, placing my small bag on the chair beside me. Holly came out from the kitchen, her face breaking into a smile when she saw me. Once again, I was struck by how lovely she was as she walked toward me. She held up my glasses. "I was going to drop these off at the garage for you in the morning." Then she frowned as she glanced toward the window. "Why is Tom leaving? What is he doing? I told him you needed a ride to the motel!" She began to hurry toward the door before I stopped her.

  "It's fine. I sent him back to town."

  "Why? I'll get him back. You came for your glasses, and now you have them!"

  I shook my head and drew in a deep breath. "I didn't come back only for my glasses. I wanted to spend more time with you."

  Her light-blue eyes widened. "Oh."

  I hesitated, worried about her reaction. "Is that okay?"

  Pink tinged her cheeks. "Yeah, it is."

  "Good."

  "Can I get you something?"

  I smiled. I hadn't totally lied to Tom—I was hungry. "May I have a cheeseburger? With fries?"

  She laughed. "Yes."

  "Will you-will you sit with me?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Good."

  She nodded, suddenly looking shy. "Yes," she murmured. “Yes, it is.”

  "Don't you need to call your family?"

  I shook my head. I finished chewing my burger and swallowed. I sipped my coffee, trying to figure out the best response. "They, ah, didn't know I was on my way."

  "Oh, you're surprising them? I'm sure Tom will get your car fixed and you'll make it. They'll be thrilled."

  I snorted. "I doubt thrilled is the right word."

  She wrapped her hands around her mug of coffee, studying me over the rim. I noticed how small and delicate her fingers were, barely reaching around the mug.

  "What would the right word be?"

  "Surprised. Maybe slightly displeased."

  Holly frowned. "That would be a strange reaction to have when family comes to visit at Christmas."

  "They aren't—" I drew in some much-needed oxygen "—like most families."

  She tilted her head as she processed my words. "Why would you say that?"

  I sighed. "I don't get on well with my family, Holly." I chuckled dryly at the understatement. "When my car broke down, I was wondering if it was a sign I was stupid for making this trip."

  "Why did you make it, then?"

  I shrugged. "I haven't had a Christmas with them in years. My sister had a baby a couple of months ago. I thought maybe I should try to reconnect. Enough time had gone by, I thought perhaps I needed to make the effort."

  Her tone was gentle. "What happened, Evan? Can you tell me?"

  Her eyes were tender and kind. There were no demands in them, only concern. For the first time ever, I wanted to tell someone. I wanted to share. Unconsciously, I reached out my hand, and she met it halfway, wrapping mine between both of hers. Again, I felt a surge of warmth flow through me at the contact. I noticed the contrast between our skin. The tan on mine was still visible from all the work I did outdoors. My skin was rough and callused. Holly’s skin was pale, supple, and her hands looked small holding my larger one.

  I glanced around. The diner was deserted except for a couple of truckers eating at the booth in the corner. They had already paid their bill and were finishing their coffee and pie. The cook was busy in the kitchen. No one was looking at us or paying attention to our discussion.

  "I have two siblings. Both perfect in my parents' eyes. Popular in school, excellent at anything they put their mind to. Well-rounded students and now very successful adults. At least, their version of success. My sister is married, my brother an eternal bachelor. Both have great, high-profile careers." I smiled sadly, lifting one shoulder. "And then there's me. The baby of the family."

  Holly smiled. "I thought the baby of the family was the most spoiled—the most loved."

  I shook my head. "Not in my family. I've never quite measured up. I was always shy, quiet. I did well in school, but not like my siblings. I didn’t participate in all the activities they did. My grades were good, and I liked to study and read. I liked to fix things and be on my own.”

  Memories pushed on the edges of my mind. My mother ordering me from the garage, telling me to stop working on a damaged table I had found and wanted to fix for my room.

  “We do not have castoffs in this house.” She grimaced in horror. “Throw it back in the garbage where it belongs.”

  She refused to listen to my pleas.

  My father frowned at our exchange and muttered about my lack of ambition.

  “Get your head out of your ass and concentrate, Evan. You’ll never amount to anything at this rate. Brooks men don’t use their hands like common laborers. We use our brains.”

  It never changed. I was constantly in trouble for wanting to fix and mend things I found and liked. Eventually, I stopped taking them home—instead using a friendly neighbor’s garage, a man who liked to tinker and mend things as well. He taught me so many things I still used to this day. The day he died was one of the saddest days of my life. It felt as if I had lost my only friend, and I had no one to share my grief with. My family hadn’t noticed how much time I spent with him. As long as I wasn’t bothering them or doing anything to embarrass the Brooks name, they didn’t really pay attention to me.

  I shook my head to clear it, meeting Holly’s eyes and returning to the present.

  “I was never popular, good at sports, or outgoing the way they were. I was merely okay. Nothing exceptional like them. I was, as my father told me many times, an underachiever."

  "Everyone is different. It's what makes us special."

  I nodded because she was right. Except in my family—special wasn’t allowed. It only made you different. Different wasn't good.

  I studied our clasped hands, noting how well her fingers knit with mine. "My father is a lawyer. My brother, Calvin, is a partner in his firm. My sister, Kelsey, owns her own design company. My mother runs a high-end boutique. They all live in very large homes, drive expensive cars, and live extravagant lifestyles. They travel a lot, shop lavishly, and have lives I'm not comfortable with. I never was." I paused. "And then there’s me. The odd man out." I barked out a low laugh. “The only thing I have in common with my siblings is our trust funds. And even those, we disagree on.”

  I stopped.

  Why the hell had I mentioned my trust fund?

  I never talked about it. Ever.

  But Holly didn’t comment on my trust fund. She didn’t even look interested when I mentioned it.

  "Tell me about Evan. Who is he?" she asked, squeezing my hand.

  "I'm an antique restoration specialist. I live alone in a house on the edge of the water, in a little town on the East Coast. My world is a quiet one. My workshop is out back of my house, so I'm my own boss, and I don't socialize much. I live a simple, uncomplicated life. I don't live like my family. I like things…modest."

  "Do you get lonely?"

  I paused. I had been lonely until I took a job restoring an antique desk for Carol Whittaker. I hadn't realized how lonely I was until the Whittakers came into my life.

  "Not the way I was when I was younger. I have a few good friends now who treat me like part of their family." I smiled as I thought about Dan and Carol. How they had practically adopted me, bringing me into their family, showing me what it was like to be part of one—accepted for who I was and not treated like an outsider. It took a lot of effort on their part to get me comfortable enough to accept their care and friendship since I wasn't used to being wanted. But they never gave up, and now I was no longer alone, although there were many times, I still felt lonely. Andrew, their son, and I were close friends, and I got along well w
ith his wife, Tara, who treated me like the brother she’d never had, which meant she ordered me around a lot. Used to being ignored by my own siblings, I had to admit, I liked it.

  "You repair broken pieces of history, Evan? Restore their beauty? Make them useful and vibrant again?"

  I like how she phrased my work. "I suppose, in many cases, yes."

  "I think that’s wonderful. What else?" she prompted.

  "I teach piano lessons in my spare time, and I like to carve things. I take a lot of pictures around the area I live in—it’s beautiful there, no matter the season." I paused, searching my brain. “I like watching the history and nature channels. And I coach little kids’ hockey in the winter.”

  She lifted our hands and studied mine. "You have long fingers—perfect for the piano."

  I chuckled. "I never get them clean, though. No matter how I scrub them, there’s always stain or paint under the nails from whatever project I'm working on."

  She smiled and shook her head. "They’re still beautiful hands, Evan. Capable, strong, talented hands.”

  I looked down at them in surprise. She thought they were beautiful? Capable and talented?

  I was certain no one had ever used those words to describe any part of me.

  I looked at her hands: small, tiny fingers that barely came to my knuckles as I held them against mine. l liked, however, how they felt nestled between my own fingers. They seemed to fit as if they belonged there.

  “What about you?” I asked. “What do you like to do?”

  “I rescue stranded men. Like a St. Bernard—except I have less fur. And no brandy.”

  I chuckled. “Happens a lot, does it? Strange men tripping in here half frozen, looking for warmth?”

  She nodded. “A regular Wednesday night occurrence.” She winked. “At least once a month.”

  I laughed at her drollness. “What do you do aside from imitating a big, furry dog?”

  She paused, her hesitation making it seem as if she weren’t sure how to answer. I wondered if perhaps no one ever asked her that question.

  “I-I like to sketch. Paint with watercolors.” She shrugged. “I’m not very good, but I like doing it.”

  “You’re probably amazing.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “No idea—a feeling, I suppose. I think you’d be amazing at anything you did.”

  Her gaze skittered away and I knew I was right. No one asked, and she never talked about it. It was something private. But she had told me.

  “What do you sketch?”

  “I take walks and sketch animals in the woods. Sometimes the sunsets. I just enjoy it.”

  “You’d love it where I live. There is so much beauty, you’d be sketching all the time.”

  She offered me a small smile, her gaze unfocused as she looked past my shoulder into the night. I wasn’t sure why I’d said that, but for some reason, I wanted her to know about the beauty of the place I called home.

  "Do you have, um, a girlfriend?" she asked, looking at me bashfully from under her eyelashes. Then as if she realized what the answer to that question might be, she started to withdraw her hands from mine.

  "No," I hastened to assure her, holding on to her fingers. "I'm, ah, not so good with…girls. Um, women. I mean, I've had them. Girlfriends, I mean. A few. But, yeah, um. No. No girlfriend." I huffed out a sigh. "The shyness I suffered from in my youth has never completely gone away. I have trouble talking at times."

  God, I was lame.

  "Seems to me you do okay. You're talking to me."

  "You're different, somehow," I murmured. "You make it easy to talk to you."

  The blush I found so charming appeared again. "Thank you."

  I squeezed her hand.

  “Tell me more about your home,” she asked.

  “I live in a log cabin. A family had bought it as a holiday place, then grew tired of it. I saw it one day when I was traveling and fell in love with it. I bought it and spent a year adding on to it, building my workshop and making it my own.”

  “You were traveling?”

  I stared out the window, lost in thought. “I knew my life was never going to satisfy my parents. After I left school, I knew I didn’t want a nine-to-five job. I had secretly been taking woodworking courses, and I knew that was what I wanted to do. I left home and traveled, learning more and more about antiques and restoration. I was in Nova Scotia when I saw the house.” I shrugged. “Walking up the driveway felt like coming home to me, and I stayed.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  "My favorite time of day is spent sitting on my porch watching the sun set over the water," I offered quietly. "It's so peaceful. I love living there."

  "Sounds pretty good to me."

  I snorted. "According to my father, it's a waste."

  She lifted one shoulder dismissively. "It's not his life. He lives his life how he likes. You're entitled to live yours. You don’t owe them anything. You only owe your life to yourself."

  Her words hit me.

  Unassuming. Direct.

  My life.

  Not his.

  I stared at her in shock at the simple clarity of her statement.

  "Still, they are your family, Evan. You should try to be part of their life. Family is important."

  "Do you have family, Holly?"

  Her glance was unfocused over my shoulder. The diner was now empty except for us, the only other sound in the place coming from the kitchen. It was well after two, and she had told me that she worked until three. I didn't want the time to be over.

  I waited as she gathered her thoughts.

  "I lost my parents a couple of years ago. They were away on one of their trips and died when the bus they were on crashed in the mountains of Brazil. I have no siblings. So, no family—I'm alone." She stopped as if searching for words.

  “One of their trips?” I prompted.

  "My parents were free spirits. We relocated a lot, never settling—always moving from some new adventure they wanted to have to another. They worked so many odd jobs, never saving for the future, and when they died, there was nothing left for me. I hadn’t gone on that trip with them. I hadn’t gone for a couple of years. I was tired of the travel, to be honest. After they were gone, I stayed here. I was tired of moving around, being dragged from place to place. I had a job and a few friends. I needed to stay in one place for a while and figure out what I wanted to accomplish in my life."

  I frowned. It didn't sound like she’d had a very good childhood.

  “Is that why you like to sketch?”

  She nodded. “A pad of paper and a pencil were easy to carry around. I could lose myself in the view—commit some place I liked to memory.” She sighed. “We never stayed anywhere for very long, and I knew we’d probably never go back. My parents believed in experiencing something—someplace, once—and going forward.” There was a beat of silence. “I often think I was one of those things.”

  “Sounds lonesome.”

  She met my gaze. “It was.”

  "How old are you, Holly?"

  "Twenty-three."

  "I'm thirty."

  "It's just a number, Evan."

  "True. Do you, ah, do you live alone?"

  "With my cat, Chester. I have a roommate who is hardly ever there. Connie travels for a living and comes home every so often to swap her wardrobe, catch up, and she’s gone. It’s her place—I sort of take care of it while she’s gone."

  "You like it here?"

  She shrugged. "I was so tired of never having anything to call my own—never feeling I truly had a home. I wanted someplace I felt I could belong."

  "Did you find it?"

  Her voice was so low, I almost didn't hear her. "Not yet."

  The urge to lean forward and tell her I wanted to help her with that was strong. Instead, I squeezed her hands. "We all want that, Holly. We all need to belong—to someone and someplace."

  She nodded.

  "What
do you want from your life?"

  "I want to go back to school and get my degree. I want to work with kids. I love kids."

  “You want to teach?”

  “Teach or early childhood development. I’m still deciding.”

  "Is that—" I paused, unsure how to ask "—going to happen for you?"

  "Soon." She nodded. "I work here and part time in town at the local grocery store. I'll have enough to go to school in the fall next year. I'll still have to work and find a place to live with roommates, but I'll be able to do it."

  "That's great." I squeezed her hands in encouragement. I had a feeling she could do anything she put her mind to.

  The door opened, and an older woman walked in. She stared briefly at Holly and me before nodding and heading into the back. It was then I realized how close we were. Our chairs were pulled together, shoulders touching. Our hands were entwined on the tabletop, and as we talked, our heads had drifted nearer together, almost touching. It was as if we were wrapped in a bubble of our own, sharing our lives with each other. I had never experienced this sense of intimacy with another person…or this sense of wanting to be even closer.

  "My shift relief is here," she told me. "That's Barb."

  "Does she work every night?" I couldn't imagine getting up in the middle of the night all the time.

  Holly grinned mischievously and bent forward, her voice discreet. "Yes. Rumor has it she likes how Ronnie, um, runs the kitchen—" she winked "—if you know what I mean. Worth getting out of bed for, I hear." Then she giggled, and I chuckled with her.

  "What about you, Holly? Do you like his kitchen skills?" I teased her, even though inside I was feeling a strange tightening of my stomach as I waited for her answer.

  She relaxed back in her chair. "Nope. He's always too hot—working by the stove." She quirked her eyebrows, making her look adorable. "I prefer cold hands and feet. Gives me something to warm up while cuddling."

  I laughed at her cheeky remarks. She was quite adorable.

  She yawned—trying to cover the fact that she was doing so by turning her head.

  My smile faded, because I knew what that meant. It was time to say goodbye to her. I stood.